Overcoming my natural trepidation at lawlessness, I tossed the plumber's rocket behind the curtains and waited for Holmes to sound the alarm. "Fire!" he cried, rising to his feet and staggering toward the window before the lady had a chance to impede him. Holmes had predicted that the lady's first thought would be to secure the precious object that we had been hard to procure. Her quick glance, imperceptible in the confusion to anyone lacking the keen powers of perception of the detective, rested on an old bench. A bench with peeling green paint and signs of wear, it seemed very much out-of-place in the elegant and stately sitting room. Noting it as an object of specific purpose and remembering his failure in the Gene Adler affair of dubious and questionable memory, Holmes sprung into action. He darted, like a cat, onto the bench, assured that from its height he would certainly be able to view the hiding place of the document. A moment later I heard a scream, the likes of which had never penetrated my ears and which I may never hear again. I climbed through the open window and saw the great detective laying on the floor in a pile of broken wood which had once been the green bench. As Holmes cried out, "Watson, my back!" and I reached for the brandy on the sideboard, I glimpsed out of the corner of my eye the lady, holding a tightly scrolled document, quickly pass out of the room.